Can festivals ever be black tie?
If you hate the idea of Glastonbury, could the new breed of ‘poshtivals’ be for you? Festival virgin Hannah Betts finds out
‘Can we leave?” may not be the three words every woman longs to hear from her beloved, but no statement has ever made me happier. For it is the hottest night of the year, and I find myself a VVIP guest at Britain’s hottest spot: the Henley Festival, a black-tie “boutique” festival, frequented by the Prime Minister and 25,000 rather more hedonistic carousers. I have £695 bottles of fizz at my disposal, £50 Cuban cigars, and a star with not one but five number one hits under her belt. Yet all I am craving is bath, bed, and a cup of decaffeinated tea. Think of me as the Scrooge of high summer, the Grinch that stole July.
Before I go any further, allow me to stress what a ghastly individual I am. I have never before attended a full-on music festival and hope I never will, given that I dislike people, crowds, all forms of noise and the not-so-great outdoors. Glasto, Bestival, even chichi Port Eliot are my idea of hell. Still, “Henley is different,” everyone assured me: pretty, posh, pop-ups a-plenty – positively PLU. The festival originated when the Regatta posse realised they could avail themselves of its facilities for a second event the following week. Billed as an “arts festival”, it has been running for 35 years, with a capacity of 6,200 a night, from 6pm until the witching hour, over five evenings. On offer this week is music, food, comedy, art and a 4,600-seater arena featuring acts such as Goldie, the Pet Shop Boys, Chaka Khan, and All Saints plus Melanie C.
In theory, ritziness is Henley’s thing. Ticket prices are £170 a head for the best grandstand seats, before costly food and drink. A package covering fizz, dinner, drinks and pop stars is £900 per couple, while mooring for the 250 who arrive by boat is up to £1,500 a night, depending on the size of one’s mid-life crisis. The place gets through 350 lobsters, 2,500 asparagus spears and 12,000 litres of champagne every year – not including those quaffed via its revolutionary mini Moët vending machine, the first to appear at a British shindig. Its website features shots of Sloanes shouting at each other: no mud, no litter, no Swampy-style dreadlocks, no camping.
The reality is certainly spick and span, with sights to be seen including the bizarre British tradition that is picnicking in the car park and revellers politely bopping in their seats. As for opulence, I’m not convinced. We were hoping for elegance, plus a spot of village fête. Instead, it feels like a bad wedding: men doing that peculiar type of black tie striding from the elbow, swaggeringly addressing their womenfolk as “Laydees”; said ladies displaying an excess of leathery cleavage while vying over competitive salad prep.
It is extremely white, if white can be taken to mean orange. Vintage Dom may be available at £695 a magnum, but most merrymakers are clutching Heineken bottles; “posh dogs” consumed on giant wooden thrones are favoured over the £148-per-head Riverside Restaurant. Even the festival’s celebs feel a tad naff, be it Chris Tarrant, Laurence Llewelynbowen, or the camp one from Made in Chelsea. “Is this what you call ‘gin and jags’?” inquires my boyfriend.
There is a good deal of aimless wandering about. It turns out that Henley is home to the world’s worst sculpture – winsome girls, sundry dolphins, and giant soulful faces – and the place to commission terrifying portraits of one’s offspring. There is street theatre featuring (one presumes) failed drama students on stilts, and a woman who has transformed herself into a living red carpet. Despite being sober for three years, I feel a desperate desire for a drink. Party-goers are either 14 and in anatomically explicit dresses, or mid-50s with baggy knees. Two fiercely eye-browed whippersnappers inform me that they are here to see headliner Jess Glynne (sings in an American accent, originates from Muswell Hill). Naturally, I adopt the teens as my fellow travellers, in particular the “Henley Squad”, aged 12 to 19, clutching beer bottles and having the time of their lives. We pose for pictures. “Is this for Snapchat? asks one of the girls. “No, it’s for The Telegraph,” I confess.
As for the gender divide, there isn’t one – a fact I notice on catching sight of the almost universally female dance floor. Sartorially, it’s rather a mixed bag: a few token evening dresses and some cocktail numbers, but the rest of them veer from nightclub or Ascot, via day dresses, to beach.
My boyfriend, photographer Clara and I take sanctuary in Ronnie Scott’s for jazz and £90 coronation chicken. This bit I like – why, we could almost be in London! The boyfriend stoically claims to be having “a nice time”, to which Clara retorts: “Look around you – with your eyes.” He also issues the following declarations: “This is not enjoyable” and “I’m not very happy here.” I rest my case.
We go to bid farewell to our cherished Henley posse, who are living it up to Ms Glynne’s faux Yank vocals. Apart from the requisite late-night crying women, everyone else is having a whale of a time. I could see them – with my eyes – disporting themselves with abandon. Any ghastliness or cynicism is clearly my own.
The Henley Festival continues until Sunday. For tickets, visit henley-festival.co.uk